Page 82 of Dominate

He throws the jab. He loads the right hand.

I remember Victor’s advice. I remember Eli’s read.

I change levels. I dive under his reach, wrapping both arms tight around his waist. I drive my shoulder directly into his solar plexus.

Zane sprawls hard. His heavy hips slam down on my back. The sheer mass of him threatens to flatten me against the mat.

I refuse to stop driving. I hook my hand around his left ankle. I pull the joint toward me, breaking his base. I thrust forward, twisting my core.

We crash to the canvas in a tangle of limbs.

The impact forces the air from his lungs in a loud rush. We grapple for position. Every single transition becomes a brutal struggle for dominance. He frames his forearm against my throat, pushing my head back. The friction burns my skin. I strip his grip, sliding my knee over his thigh.

I pass his guard. I lock him down in side control.

He turns toward me, trying to get a knee between our bodies. I flatten him out and listen to Victor shout from the corner. This is what he has had me drilling: no space, no easy route back to his feet.

I slide my shin across his stomach. I take the full mount.

My knees crowd his shoulders. I rain down short, punishing elbows. He blocks the strikes with his forearms, absorbing the damage.

I fish for his left arm, isolating the wrist. I step over his head and sit back for the armbar, trapping his wrist against my chest. The joint stretches to the limit.

“Tap,” I demand, my voice a rough growl over the crowd.

Zane locks his jaw. His eyes burn with pure defiance. He refuses to yield.

“Make me.”

He clasps his hands before I can straighten the arm, stacks his weight over me, and pulls his elbow clear. We scramble across the slick vinyl. Knees scrape canvas. Hands grip sweaty wrists. We untangle and spring back to our feet.

The horn sounds the end of the round.

Razor close.

I drag myself back to the stool. My legs feel like wet sand.

Victor sprays cold water over my head. The liquid runs down my chest, soaking into the waistband of my shorts.

“Good work.” Victor taps my shoulder. “You proved you own the ground game. Now mix it up. He expects the takedown. Fake the shot and go up top.”

I nod, staring down at my taped hands. My knuckles throb.

The third round belongs to his jab. Every time I lower my level, he steps back half a pace and meets me on the way up. I catch him with a kick to the calf, but he answers with a straight right that splits my lip. I chase him for the last minute and hit too much air.

“Stop following,” Victor tells me between rounds. “Cut him off.”

In the fourth, I finally do. I feint a takedown, step across his escape route, and catch him with a right hand as he turns. He stumbles into the fence. I work the body until he clinches, then change levels and drag him down.

He refuses to stay flat. I keep a wrist trapped and make him carry my weight each time he tries to stand. Near the horn, he gets to his feet and lands a knee to my right side. I feel it when I sit down. I keep my breathing steady so Victor will not see how much.

Two rounds I think I have. Two he might have. Nobody in either corner looks certain.

“Final round,” Eli adds, his voice steady. “Leave it all out there. Do not let the judges decide your fate.”

Across the octagon, Dan screams in Zane’s face. The older man looks purple with rage. Zane stares past him, fixing his gaze on my corner. He looks exhausted. He looks devastating. The Ironside mask is gone. The man staring back at me is the same man who fell asleep against my chest yesterday morning.

The referee signals ten seconds.